


But First the Riviera

by Port



Category: Zombieland (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port/pseuds/Port
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lasted a week in Bill Murray’s house before everyone went stir-crazy and decided to go back on the road, like a band scratching the itch to tour again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But First the Riviera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/gifts).



They lasted a week in Bill Murray’s house before everyone went stir-crazy and decided to go back on the road, like a band scratching the itch to tour again. Even the certainty that they would encounter screaming zombies instead of screaming fans didn’t  
make much difference, even to Columbus.

Well, it made some difference, but he had started having nightmares where a horde of zombies who all looked like Bill Murray stormed the house and chased him down the halls, all of them groaning, “My bad! My bad!”

Knowing better than to mention the nightmares to anyone, though unsure whether he’d receive sympathy or ridicule, he simply assented to the plan to vacate Casa Murray within a few days.

That left time for everyone to enjoy a little more peace and safety before things got exciting again. Wichita was taking at least two hot showers and one bath a day, the water a luxury she had missed on the road. Little Rock, after finding her big sister a selection of fragrant bath salts in Bill Murray’s closet, had patiently allowed Tallahassee and Columbus to show her every movie Bill Murray had ever made, with time taken out for the Gandhi movie, which she mostly slept through. To Columbus’ surprise, her eyes had lit up when they found a shelf of National Geographic nature documentaries in the projector room, and she had been working her way through them since.

In between hiding his eyes during lion vs. wildebeest scenes and knocking on Wichita’s door to make sure she didn’t fall asleep and drown (it did not pay to let down your guard in Zombieland) Columbus spent a lot of time hanging out with Tallahassee. They’d shoot collector’s edition plates at varying distances, cook the last of Bill Murray’s fresh food, and watch chunks of nature documentaries with Little Rock, Tallahassee drinking whisky and making unfortunate analogies between the wildebeests and victims of zombie attacks. He would also wander into Bill Murray’s private gym while Columbus ran the treadmill and stare dubiously at him for a minute before going for the weights.

The morning before they were to leave found Tallahassee and Columbus sitting at the bar in Bill Murray’s rec room.

“I definitely strained something,” Columbus said. “All the posters in there said you start with the small weights and work your way up.”

“Are you still whining?” Tallahassee took a sip of his wine straight from the bottle. “Anyway, we did start with the small weights.”

Columbus rolled his eyes. Forty pounds was not small.

Across the room, Wichita was hitting golf balls off the little green stand she had found when they had first explored the mansion. The men watched her flawlessly swing a nine iron down at a ball and follow through in a deft arc. The ball sang away across the giant hall leading out from the other side of the room. Columbus didn’t know golf, but the way she moved looked professional and practiced, whereas every time Columbus tried to putt, he fell over or pulled a muscle, despite following Rule 18, Limber Up.

“There’s one thing I want to do before we go,” Tallahassee told Columbus.

“What’s that?” he asked. “We’ve already been to the Hollywood Bowl.” Eddie Van Halen had not been among the zombies prowling the stadium, and Columbus would always kind of wonder where he’d gone.

“No more tourist crap,” Tallahassee said. “I need to commune with nature, man to man.”

“In L.A.?”

Tallahassee ignored him and continued. “I need to refresh my soul, Columbus. And Bill Murray told me how.”

Columbus felt a shiver across his shoulders and glanced around, certain Bill Murray would appear and take bloody, hilarious revenge on him and then suggest to Tallahassee that he check out Big Bear Mountain. What happened, though, was Wichita swung her club and broke a window with the ball. “Oops,” she said. “You guys okay?”

Columbus waved gamely then turned back to Tallahassee, who said, “I’m gonna play nine rounds at the Riviera.”

Earlier, Tallahassee had taken his turn at the golf station Wichita was owning. It hadn’t been pretty.

“You know, just because Bill Murray did it doesn’t mean you have to,” Columbus tried. He didn’t know much about golf. In fact, his sole experience came via Caddyshack—another Bill Murray classic—and that time he’d dedicated 52 hours straight playing Mario Golf 64 in 2002. If playing golf for real produced anything like the frustration of using a hand controller, then he really didn’t want to see the aftermath of nine rounds with Tallahassee. If the guy left the course in a bad mood, then their trip out of L.A. would turn into a killing spree with stops at every zombie-infested Qwik-E-Mart off the I-5 northbound.

“Four!” Wichita called, grinning and unnecessarily shading her eyes to watch as another ball streaked away.

And he was pretty sure Wichita wouldn’t be much help in the matter.

“Columbus,” Tallahassee explained, setting down his wine, “the man found peace and solitude at that high-end country club, and I aim to emulate the poor son of a bitch.”

“What are you two talking about?” Wichita asked. She walked over to the bar and borrowed Columbus’ soda for a sip.

Tallahassee slid his bottle closer to his chest, protectively, and said, “I’m taking a little trip to the Riviera. Gonna need those clubs.”

“Nuh-uh. Those are for fun, not mutilating the undead. Wait a minute, did you say the Riviera? Bill Murray’s Riviera?”

Tallahassee stood. “Yup. I’ll be back before dark.”

Wichita’s face lit up. “Like hell. We’ll come with.” She strode to the doorway and yelled, “Little Rock! Field trip!”

The men stared after her as she went to gather her sister and find her boots. They looked at each other. “You know,” Columbus told Tallahassee, “William Faulkner called golf a good walk ruined.”

Tallahassee rolled his eyes. “That was Mark Twain, and he didn’t have Bill Murray’s clubs.”

~~

The drive to the Riviera took longer than planned because they had to stop often to steer abandoned vehicles out of the way of the Hummer. The start-stop was a lot like sitting in normal traffic, only more exhausting because it also involved push-pulling and checking a lot of back seats. Little Rock covered them with a rifle from the roof of the Hummer and Wichita slowly drove forward as the path opened. Columbus had to admit they made a good team.

Sunset Boulevard eventually cleared up, and Wichita drove slowly down it, looking for the cross-street. “It’s nice not having a million cars honking at you when you’re doing this,” she muttered, and Columbus had to admit zombies were kind of an improvement on road rage.

“Hey, Wichita,” he said, after she had sworn and doubled back to looking for the street again. “Where’d you learn to play golf, anyway?”

She glanced into the rearview and found Little Rock’s eyes and the two girls looked at each other in silent conference. “A long con,” Wichita finally said, meeting his eyes flatly. “I played ingénue apprentice to a golf pro and got him to hand over his PGA trophy. Sold it for good money to this shady collector.”

The thing about Wichita was she lied with the best of them. Columbus was starting to get a sense for when she was conning him, but the things she said were often too impressive to be untrue. He gave the long con story three-in-five odds of veracity.

“Ho-lee!” Tallahassee exclaimed. “Was it Jack Nicklaus?”

“Tiger Woods,” she responded with a proud grin.

“No way,” Tallahassee said, appalled, and Columbus adjusted the odds to one-in-five.

“So Tiger Woods taught you how to play golf?” he asked.

“Sure did. Broke his heart when I told him I’d decided to quit. That’s when he gave me the trophy.”

Nodding slowly at her, Columbus hoped she wasn’t actually so skilled at golf that she’d made Tiger Woods cry and give her a trophy. Tallahassee might not enjoy his homage to peace and quiet and Bill Murray’s final Zen place if Wichita kicked his ass on the green. Not that Columbus had a stake in Tallahassee’s happiness or anything. He just didn’t like seeing the poor guy in a mood. That was all.

~~

Outside the gates, they encountered three male zombies dressed in torn polo shirts and pressed slacks. Columbus pegged them for caddies until he caught sight of the Rolexes and gold wedding rings on their wrists and fingers. Golfers, then. Rich ones who had probably been on the course when they had turned, and who had later given Bill Murray no trouble when he came over wearing zombie makeup to play his nine holes in peace.

“Remember,” Tallahassee said as he, Columbus and Wichita approached the three zombies on foot. “No firearms. The shots’ll bring every bastard in a two-mile radius, and then we can’t play golf.”

“That being our priority in the zombie apocalypse,” Columbus muttered, wiping sweat off his hands onto his shirt so he could grip his tire iron better. Not that he was especially worried; Little Rock stood on the roof of the car close by to cover them if things got hairy.

Tallahassee wielded a hockey stick found in Bill Murray’s garage and took on the first zombie with his usual flair when it rushed forward, spittle flying and arms outstretched. He swung the stick like a baseball bat, whumping it into the zombie’s stomach, then drawing the stick overhead and cutting down like an executioner with an ax, with the same result.

Columbus flailed when the zombie head rolled under his feet, and he almost tripped. Luckily, Wichita had his back and a two-by-four when the second zombie ran at him, taking it down at the knees, which broke with a loud crunch. The zombie screeched when it hit the ground, then tried to drag itself at her using its elbows. Crushing its skull with the two-by-four was pretty simple at that point.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting her steadying hand.

“Any time.”

They turned to watch as Tallahassee did something unsightly with the hockey stick to the last zombie, laughing with joy. The remains of the zombie fell to the ground, and they stood blinking at the mess until Columbus said, “I guess we can let the double-tap rule go in this one instance.”

Tallahassee smirked and reached into the guard station to hit the control for the gate to open. “S’pose we can.”

~~

Inside the gates, the street ran about a quarter mile until it reached the main building, an expansive and elegant rich-people’s domain now half-burned down and sending the smell of char toward them on the wind.

“Guess we won’t be checking in at the main desk,” Tallahassee said, grinning.

Luckily, the pro-shop was still intact. The little building had been locked up tight, and a security alarm actually went off when they broke in, surprising everyone. If Columbus had been in a more whimsical headspace, he would have found the noise sad; it was clanging to alert people who had already been killed or turned into zombies, too late for anyone, and would never be needed again.

“Would you shut that off, please!” he yelled over the ringing, holding his hands up to his ears. He had sensitive drums and didn’t want to damage them now that there were no auditory specialists left in the world.

Wichita disabled it somehow, and they set to work finding what they needed in the aisles of golf accessories. “Whiny baby,” she muttered, heading for a display of ladies’ size clubs. Behind him, Tallahassee snickered.

“Come on, Ohio, let’s get you a good setta clubs,” he said.

For someone who had meant to come here alone and play nine rounds with no one in sight, Tallahassee didn’t seem to mind the company much. Columbus glanced at Wichita, who was sizing up clubs with what seemed to him an expert eye. Little Rock went over to her and pointed to an iron in the back row of the display. Wichita pulled it out and tested its height and weight, then high-fived Little Rock.

“Yeah, you know, I think I’ll sit this one out,” he told Tallahassee. Too many soups spoil the chef, wasn’t that the saying?

~~

Of course he wound up Tallahassee’s caddy.

They tromped out of the pro shop laden with extra balls, tees, a set of ladies’ clubs, Bill Murray’s own set, and wearing little golf caps like the zombies at the gate had been wearing before Tallahassee and Wichita dismembered them.

“Better not expect a tip,” Tallahassee said, giving Columbus a playful shove that nearly toppled him. Ahead, Little Rock happily pulled Wichita’s set toward the first hole, which was farther away than Columbus had expected. He had a feeling his cardio rule would come in handy yet again.

A brochure in the pro shop had described the Riviera course as world-famous and challenging, with eighteen holes, each described in loving, show-offy detail, using terminology Columbus didn’t entirely understand, like bunker and barranca. To his unpracticed eye, the course they were walking through seemed improbable in the middle of a crowded city like L.A., which was paved over and tied up with freeways. It was a city greedy for acres, yet it had a golf course of this size in one of its most expensive zip codes.

Without anyone to tend it, the grass had grown considerably, and the place would be unusable for playing once it got high enough. Bill Murray had been smart to visit while he could. Overhead, the sky was slate grey, the way it got out here sometimes, with no chance of rain. Columbus had stuck a couple of umbrellas into the bag with the clubs just in case.

“What could you possibly tip me with?” Columbus asked when he had found his footing.

“Good advice, of course.” Tallahassee turned his grin on full strength and knocled him in the shoulder.

“Oh, yeah,” Columbus said, rubbing the spot and becoming a little annoyed. “You want some good advice? Take a handicap; Wichita knows what she’s doing.”

“Those’re fighting words,” Tallahassee said, turning back and holding out a fist. “How do you know I haven’t played before too?”

His demonstration the other day in Bill Murray’s game room had been Columbus’ first clue, but maybe Tallahassee had been messing with them all. “Well, have you?”

“Nope. But I’m not taking a damn handicap to anyone,” Tallahassee said. He walked off, muttering.

~~

“Ladies first,” Tallahassee told Wichita at the first putting place. Still unsure about golf terminology, even given his experience with Mario Golf 64, Columbus had decided to just call things what they seemed to be rather than ask Wichita and Little Rock for help. He had a feeling the male sex was at a disadvantage here already.

He and Little Rock stood some yards off, giving them room and watching out for zombies. They were out in the open, which meant that even though they’d see the zombies coming, the zombies could see them too. But there was no one else was in sight, and Columbus could kind of understand why Bill Murray’s description of golfing here had captured Tallahassee’s fancy. Just green grass, photogenic trees, the grey sky, and the open air.

“So,” he asked Little Rock, since they were out of earshot of the others. Wichita was taking some practice swings, her right foot rising at the heel like a ballet dancer’s as she followed through. For a moment, she might have been a photograph. Tallahassee was off to the side, admiring Bill Murray’s golf clubs, apparently trying to decide which to use on his turn. He peeked over at Wichita and eyed her club, then bent back to look in his bag. Columbus found himself smiling.

“So, what?” Little Rock asked. She had found a Coke machine working off a generator at the back of the pro shop and seemed content to take gulps of the cold soda and watch out for zombies with him. She had a pair of binoculars around her neck but hadn’t used them yet, and her shotgun set carelessly at her feet.

He had meant to ask something else, but what came out was, “You don’t seem bored.”

“Nope.”

“Usually you do.”

She kicked him in the ankle.

“Ow!”

They might have escalated but were both distracted when Wichita hit the ball out toward the flag at least a hundred yards away. Columbus lost sight of the white streak, then it arced down and bounced a few times before the grass swallowed it, very close to the red flag.

“Holy shit,” Columbus said, not sure why he was surprised. Tallahassee whooped. “Damn, little lady. No wonder Tiger gave you his trophy.”

Wichita turned from looking out across the green, smiling in a way Columbus hadn’t seen before.

“Where did your sister learn to play like that?” Columbus asked. It had to have taken a lot of practice, longer even than a long con with Tiger Woods would have allowed.

“We grew up on a driving range,” Little Rock said, studying Tallahassee as he made two practice swings in three seconds, swishing the club powerfully through the grass. Wichita said something to him, and he straightened his knees, held the club in both hands.

“You did?”

He had imagined something more… illicit. A childhood on the run with fugitive parents escaping from the mob and the FBI both. Sure, a driving range was kind of exotic compared to his own suburban background, but it was pretty tame compared to life on the lam.

“Yup. In Arkansas. Our mom taught us how to play, and Wichita used to hustle the guys who looked at us funny.” She spoke matter-of-factly, paused to swallow some more Coke. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

“Hell yeah.” He didn’t know why Wichita needed to lie about stuff like that, but there was probably a reason, so he didn’t press. “Why did you just tell me that?” The girls had a kind of solidarity Columbus almost envied; he hadn’t had a sibling growing up.

She shrugged. “I felt like it. You’re always honest with us. And the Tiger Woods story is also true.”

He gave that 2-in-five odds, but didn’t say so. “Well, thanks.”

Wichita and Tallahassee’s voices carried over, louder than they had been before, and Columbus turned to see Wichita was arguing with Tallahassee about his swing, the two bickering back and forth. Tallahassee didn’t actually seem angry, though; if you knew him, you could tell he was enjoying the conflict, and Columbus felt bad for suggesting a handicap when it was suddenly so clear that this match wasn’t about that. Tallahassee knew Wichita had skill, and it seemed that confronting nature "man to man" had become a passing fancy since he had someone to compete with.

Finally, Tallahassee waved Wichita off to the side so he could swing. She rolled her eyes but backed off, and Tallahassee swung and hit the ball. It flew lower than Wichita's had, landing halfway between them and the flag, which still seemed an impressive enough distance that Columbus heard himself cheer, loudly.

“What?” he said when everyone turned to him. “A caddy can’t root for his golfer?” He felt his face go hot and added, “I want a tip at the end of this.”

Tallahassee rolled his eyes and gave Columbus the finger, but one corner of his lips was twitching. “Looks like I got my first groupie,” he said to Wichita. He turned around to look again at where his ball had landed and frowned, then said something else to her. She shrugged and took a club and started talking, Tallahassee studying her grip and nodding along.

“You are such a dork,” Little Rock said.

“I really am,” Columbus agreed. A breeze came down the fairway, smelling a little of the ocean and just a touch too cold. “Let’s go back to the pro shop and get some jackets,” he said. “We can come back with a cart.”

Little Rock shook her Coke can, found it empty, and agreed. They started back, leaving Tallahassee and Wichita to sort out stances and swings. Columbus had a feeling they would drive a straight shot out of L.A. in the morning.

End.


End file.
